


Trouble

by StarshipDancer



Series: Soulmates are Wonderful [4]
Category: A Very Potter Musical Series - Team StarKid
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Fluff, M/M, Quirrellmort - Freeform, Quirrelmort, Smut, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, Soulmates, i'm finally making good on my promise of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 14:11:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8984296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarshipDancer/pseuds/StarshipDancer
Summary: Voldemort proposed to Quirrell just as they were about to have sex, and now he has to handle the repercussions.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone! Sorry this took so long to update. Time to finally see what happened after Voldemort's spontaneous proposal. I'm a bit sick, so please ignore any grammatical mistakes you might find. I will go back over this later and fix anything that might be amiss. 
> 
> If you haven't read the rest of the series, please do. It will make much more sense. Thank you all for your support, and I hope you enjoy!

            Voldemort was in trouble.

            Not just the _I-proposed-to-my-boyfriend-in-bed-just-before-we-had-sex_ kind of trouble, either. The _I-proposed-to-my-boyfriend-in-bed-just-before-we-had-sex-and-then-ran-for-it_ kind of trouble. He didn’t even give Quirrell a proper response; he just sort of grabbed his clothes and booked it out the door, leaving his flustered soulmate to gape after him in confusion.

            Voldemort couldn’t help it. He panicked! What the hell else was he supposed to do? Sit there and listen to Quirrell stutter about how he appreciated the gesture, but they weren’t at any point in their relationship to be thinking about marriage? Then things would’ve gotten awkward between them, and the tension would’ve driven him _nuts_.

            Not that this situation was any fucking better. He’d been staying with Malloy for the past four days, and he suspected that Cissy wanted him out. As charming as she found him (so not charming at all), she always stared at him as though expecting him to suddenly light everything on fire. Never mind that he didn’t even _start_ that fire at the library! He’d have a fun time getting rid of his old reputation.

            Unless Quirrell didn’t want anything to do with him anymore. Then he might as well just go back to causing mayhem.

            Nervously, he slicked his hair back, but the sweat from his hands wasn’t helping his hair gel at all. He didn’t know what he was doing there, at their favorite diner in their favorite booth with their favorite waitress casting worried glances in his general direction every five minutes. His coffee had long chilled, and when he raised the cup to his lips, he cringed at the cold bitterness that left a disgusting sting on his tongue.

            Voldemort put his head down, his brow rested on the cool, polished tabletop, wishing he could get the thumping in his brain to go away. He hadn’t been drinking, but he felt heavy and sick with hangover. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see Quirrell.

            But how the fuck was he supposed to just _go home_ now? Voldemort sighed. He could always leave the country? Yeah, that sounded like a good idea. Just leave and start anew, and… and what? Pine over Quirrell from afar?

            This was exactly why he never wanted to find his soulmate in the first place. Not that he ever expected he would prematurely propose in the middle of sex. Quirrell just… complicated things.

            Voldemort felt somebody sit down across from him, and he stiffened. Great. Just _great_. He should’ve known sitting in their favorite fucking diner was a bad idea.

            He could do this. He just had to… to play it cool. Yeah. Just brush it off as a fluke, a mistake. He could do that. He was the _Dark Lord_ , after all. The master of making cunning excuses.

            Now if only he could convince himself to raise his head. His neck felt stiff, heavy, as though trying to save him from further humiliation by helping him play dead. Maybe Quirrell would leave if he didn’t address him?

            He heard a noise. The clatter of china against the smooth table surface. Shit. Their usual waitress probably brought Quirrell his tea with lemon, as usual. A few seconds later, Voldemort caught the scrape of stirring and nearly cursed under his breath.

            There had to be a way to handle this. Quirrell was obviously waiting for him to say something. He just had to act natural. Well. As natural as he could act with his face planted against the table.

            “Hey, you,” came his muffled greeting.

            Quirrell sighed. Voldemort imagined him frowning. “Voldemort.”

            “So, uh. How have you been?”

            Quirrell shrugged, feigning nochalance. Voldemort couldn’t explain how he knew that, but he definitely knew. “Oh, you know. About as well as I could be after _my soulmate_ _proposed_ and then _vanished for_ _four days_.”

            Voldemort cringed at Quirrell’s tone. He deserved that. He deserved that and more. Swallowing, he opened his mouth for one of those lies he was so famous for, but nothing came out. Only a few stuttered vowels that articulated into nothing. He swallowed again and thought about trying to lift his head again, but he didn’t bother trying. No reason to embarrass himself even more.

            After a moment, Quirrell sighed again. “Voldemort, is there a reason you won’t look at me?”

            “Yeah,” Voldemort defended, “there is. And it’s a perfectly good reason, too.”

            “And what might that be?” Quirrell sounded like he expected the worst and not—

            “My head’s too heavy.”

            A beat passed in silence, with Voldemort’s heart hammering loudly and Quirrell quieter than he’d ever been. Then, out of nowhere, came the soft, familiar, comforting sound of Quirrell’s laughter. Voldemort felt his heart lift a little and wished his head would follow suit. Two hands appeared on the sides of his face to raise him up some, and he found himself gazing hopefully into Quirrell’s exhausted face, which Voldemort noticed was carefully distant.

            Quirrell frowned a little. “You don’t look like you’ve slept at all lately.”

            “Neither do you,” Voldemort grumbled and, with Quirrell’s help, sat up all the way. He stretched, his back stiff, and struggled to keep from just dropping his face back down onto the table.

            “And whose fault is that?” Quirrell asked, exasperated, and Voldemort glanced away guiltily. Sure, he had a point, but did he have to be so fucking blunt about it? “Why _did_ you leave, Voldemort?”

            “I, uh… you know… I forgot to do something?” So much for cunning excuses. He was an embarrassing dark lord.

            “For _four days_ , with absolutely no word at all?” Quirrell absently traced the rim of his teacup with his fingertip, and Voldemort traced Quirrell’s fingertip with his eyes. Fuck, he was in deep if Quirrell’s fucking _finger_ enthralled him.

            While Voldemort struggled with what to say, Quirrell peered up at him, biting his lip in that way that made Voldemort’s brain malfunction. He should’ve left his head down. He should’ve just fucking left his head down, and he might’ve been able to string a few words together to make a fucking _sentence_.

            “Voldemort?” Quirrell’s hand stilled at last. Voldemort looked up and into his eyes, which searched him for a reasonable explanation and would never find one. “Voldemort, did you leave because you proposed?”

            _Lie_. _Lie, and everything might go back to normal_. But when Voldemort opened his mouth, what came out was a strangled “Yeah.”

            Quirrell nodded to himself, doing that frustrating lip-biting thing again. “Did you mean it? When you proposed, did you mean it?”

            Of course he meant it! Hell, all he was doing was _looking_ at Quirrell, and Voldemort wanted to propose again! He took another drink of the cold coffee and winced, and Quirrell gave him a patient look. He waved over their waitress and ordered a fresh cup for Voldemort.

            This bought him a little bit of time to think of an excuse. Something believable that might smooth things over with Quirrell and help them get back onto equal footing once more. He missed his Squirrel, and this awkwardness was destroying him.

            They’d been past this! They were doing so _well_. Why did Voldemort have to go and open his big mouth?

            He noticed then that the cup in front of him was steaming and that Quirrell was watching him in anticipation of an answer. He hastily took a drink and hissed at the temperature. Quirrell pursed his lips to keep from smiling.

            “I, uh… I was caught up in the moment, and um… you know….” _God_ , Voldemort sounded lame. Even he wouldn’t buy that! And with the way Quirrell raised an eyebrow at him, he didn’t either.

            “So you _don’t_ want to get married?” Quirrell clarified, a flicker of hurt in his eyes. _Shit_. Voldemort was making it worse!

            “No! I mean, yes! Yes, I want to get married to you! Nothing would make me happier! I just didn’t….” Voldemort trailed off, unable to find the right words to voice what he really meant. He didn’t want to scare Quirrell with a premature proposal, but he didn’t want to offend Quirrell by telling him how much Voldemort expected a _no_.

            That was it, he realized with a start. It wasn’t just timing. No, it was a certain fear, screaming deep within him and shaking him to the bone, that Quirrell would reject him still. Even though Quirrell had proved time and time again that he loved Voldemort and wanted to be with him, Voldemort just couldn’t shake the terrifying nightmare that his own soulmate would toss him out eventually.

            Quirrell, still eyeing him, took another meditative sip of his tea. Voldemort waited for a moment, expecting at least a reaction, but when he didn’t get one, he just looked down at his coffee. The rich brew rocked uneasily towards the brim of the cup as his hands shook, clammy palms clinging to the porcelain for warmth.

            Any minute now, and Quirrell would be telling him what he had guessed he would hear right from the very beginning. _I’m flattered, but I think it’s too early in our relationship to be thinking of marriage_. So what if Malloy and Narcissa married their first month of dating? So what if they were soulmates? That didn’t mean Quirrell was ready to spend the rest of his life with him.

            Voldemort took a deep breath, red eyes slipping shut. He could still feel Quirrell’s eyes watching him pensively, as though debating the best way to let him down. At least, that sounded like the most-likely conclusion.

            Quirrell’s gentle voice lulled him from his self-deprecating expectations with a baffling request. “Ask again.”

            “What?” Voldemort opened his eyes again, his brow furrowing in confusion at the man across from him. A light blush dusted his cheeks, and Quirrell looked away before Voldemort could read the emotions swimming in his tender eyes.

            “A-ask me again, Voldemort. Properly.”

            Voldemort didn’t see how this would help any. Did he want a formal proposal so he could reject him appropriately? Remove any inkling of hope in Voldemort’s heart that he might someday want to tie the knot?

            He sighed. Might as well get this over with. He set aside the coffee cup, worried he might knock it over in his nervousness, and reached out with both of his hands for Quirrell’s. The familiarity of skin against skin almost eased him, but thoughts that he might never hold Quirrell’s hand again kept him rigid and worried, he clutched. He wet his lips before speaking, missing the way Quirrell drank in the movement, and cleared his throat.

            “Squirrel, you’re my soulmate. The other half of me. The better half of me, if I’m being fucking honest. Sometimes I feel like a parasite on the back of your head or some shit. Sorry, I’m not good at being sappy like this. I don’t really know how to do this. I just know that loving you is like an instinct. I look at you and see the way you look at me, and I don’t feel like a worthless piece of shit anymore.”

            Quirrell made a noise to interrupt him but held his tongue. Voldemort was grateful. He didn’t think he would be able to go on if something stopped him now. He swallowed, hands still shaking until Quirrell placed his free one right on top.

            Voldemort took a deep breath. “I know I suck, and my moral compass doesn’t exactly point north. You deserve better, but I’m willing to give you all that I’ve got to make you happy for the rest of my life. Quirinus Quirrell, will you marry me?”

            At last, Voldemort looked up into Quirrell’s brown eyes, nearly slain by the raw love he found gleaming through the tears. Quirrell was… Quirrell was crying? Quirrell wasn’t supposed to cry! A little confused, Voldemort slid out of the booth to kneel beside his boyfriend.

            “Hey, hey, it’s all right. What’s with the waterworks?” he asked as he wiped away the stray tears gliding along Quirrell’s face.

            “I’m s-s-sorry! That w-was just s-so—so _beautiful_ , Voldemort!” Quirrell stuttered, overwhelmed with emotions Voldemort couldn’t even begin to decipher.

            “We’re sitting in a _diner_ , Quirrell. Not exactly romantic—and you’re always reading those romance novels! I figured I had to make it good,” said Voldemort with a weak laugh. Quirrell was still crying a bit, and his heartfelt expression was beginning to make Voldemort uncomfortable. “Now, come on, hurry up and say no already.”

            Quirrell shot him a scathing look. “And _why_ would I say no?”

            “W-well, I-I, uh….” Now it was Voldemort’s turn to stammer. He tried to backpedal, but Quirrell grabbed a fistful of his shirt to hold him still.

            “Voldemort, I love you. Of course I want to marry you!” Quirrell exclaimed, as if thinking otherwise had been entirely absurd. He reached up to wipe his cheeks, smiling delightfully, and Voldemort could only stare at him.

            He said yes. Quirrell said _yes_. Voldemort couldn’t believe his ears. He must’ve misheard him or _something_ because he’d been certain that Quirrell would tell him no.

            “You… you mean it?” he whispered, his voice breaking. He cleared his throat, disarmed by the loving stare Quirrell fixed him with. “You really want to marry me?”

            “I really do, Voldemort.” Quirrell reached over to take his hand, grasping the pale fingers in his own as if he might never let them go. Voldemort hoped he didn’t. “You seem surprised. Is it okay for me to say yes?”

            “Okay?” Voldemort choked on a laugh of relief. “ _Wonderful_.” He didn’t give a fuck where they were or how many people were giving them strange looks. The only look he cared about was the one Quirrell gave him, a look of utmost acceptance and affection, and he couldn’t resist the urge to kiss him right there, in their favorite diner in their favorite booth while their favorite waitress cheered in the background.

            Quirrell laughed, his cheeks red from all the attention. Voldemort loved the way the flush dusted his skin and he thought about what he could do to keep seeing that. Smiling knowingly, Quirrell held out his hand for Voldemort’s. “Home?”

            Voldemort couldn’t help but grin. “Home.”

 

* * *

 

 

            Voldemort heaved a quiet sigh of relief once he was back inside Quirrell’s cozy apartment. Since his departure, Quirrell had managed to make a mess of everything. Clothes were strung about, papers scattered on the tables, and phone books rested, open, on the arm of the couch. Voldmort didn't have it in him to be mad. Not now, not when Quirrel had just agreed to  _marry him_.

            Had Quirrell been looking for him…? Voldemort felt a tightness in his chest at the very thought. He watched the man in question shrug out of his jacket and go to toss it on the back of the couch before he realized Voldemort was watching him. Smiling sheepishly, Quirrell hung up his jacket instead. Voldemort hardly noticed; he had been too busy watching Quirrell’s shirt tighten against his back to care about where the fuck he threw his coat.

            He wanted the rest of Quirrell’s clothes off, too. He didn’t even care if they ended up on the floor. He just wanted Quirrell, all of him, and for the first time, he didn’t care about whether or not he was good enough.

            Quirrell raised an eyebrow at him, noticing Voldemort’s hazy expression. His lips quirked for a moment before his tongue shot out to wet them. Then, slowly, his hands raised to the top of his dress shirt, deftly undoing button after button. Voldemort’s breath hitched, and he drank in the sight of Quirrell’s milky skin in the dim light filtered through the curtains.

            “Sorry the place is such a mess,” he said conversationally, the shirt sliding down his shoulders to reveal the bare flesh beneath the bothersome cotton. He let it fall to the floor to pool around his feet as he stepped out of his shoes. “I was so worried about you, you see. I looked everywhere I could think of to find you.”

            Quirrell started on his fly, and _damn_ , Voldemort was thankful the curtains were closed. Pants bagging around his waist, threatening to slide down, Quirrell gave Voldemort a look, and he realized he was expected to speak.

            “I-I was at, uh, M-Mal—”

            “Malfoy’s, yes. Narcissa told me.” Quirrell smiled at Voldemort’s flustered behavior. “I called her the other day and asked her to let me know when you left the house so I could find you. She’s quite a pleasant woman. Really doesn’t like you. I may have cleared up some things for her, so she was willing to help.”

            “Th-thanks,” Voldemort breathed, the tent in his pants growing uncomfortable, but he just _couldn’t move, damn it_!

            “You’re welcome,” Quirrell sang pleasantly as he turned, an extra wiggle to his hips as he headed toward the bedroom. His pants dropped, and the last thing Voldemort saw was the flowery pattern of his soulmate’s boxers before he disappeared down the hallway.

            Fuck. _Fuck_. Voldemort started after him, shedding his own clothes as he went. His shoes landed by the table, and he tossed his shirt, not caring where it landed. He would worry about where everything went tomorrow. He fumbled with his own fly, his hands shaking too damn much.

            “Allow me,” said Quirrell, waiting expectantly in the doorway. He playfully batted away Voldemort’s nervous fingers and eased open his tight pants with little difficult. He shoved them down his hips, an eager tone to his movements, and he stopped with his hands at Voldemort’s waistband, peering up silently through heavy-lidded eyes for permission.

            Voldemort hesitated, his throat tight. Here his soulmate was, ready and willing, and he was acting like a fucking _virgin_. He was (well, used to be) the dark lord. He had _mad game_ with the bitches.

            But fuck, man, this wasn’t just any bitch. This was _Quirrell_. The man who agreed to spend the rest of his life with him.

            Quirrell brought him back with a soft kiss to his lips. “We can wait. There’s no rush.”

            How Quirrell thought Voldemort could wait after watching him strip in the fucking living room was beyond him. He pressed forward again for another kiss, his chest sliding against Quirrell’s, who shivered with delight.

            “Go ahead,” he said, shoving his nerves aside.

            Quirrell fingertips slid under Voldemort’s briefs, dragging them down with a delicious slowness as he gave Voldemort time to stop him. They joined his pants around his ankles, and Quirrell glanced down. “Oh _shit_ ,” he said appreciatively, licking his lips again.

            “Like what you see?” Voldemort teased with a nervous wiggle.

            Quirrell didn’t answer. He merely kissed him, his mouth leaving his lips to follow his jaw to his collarbone and then his shoulder. He nipped at Voldemort’s throat, grinning when he shuddered, and kept moving downward.

            Just when Voldemort realized what was about to happen, he felt Quirrell’s tongue glide up the underside of his cock. “ _Fuck_ , Quirrell,” he groaned, one of his hands sliding into Quirrell’s soft hair and the other tightly gripping his shoulder. Quirrell hummed in approval, more than happy to take him in his mouth.

            He was dead. He must have died and gone to heaven. Quirrell sucking his dick was pure and utter _bliss_. Voldemort’s hand tightened in Quirrell’s hair as he bobbed up and down on his cock, groaning in satisfaction. He hollowed his cheeks, his hand stroking what he couldn’t fit in his mouth, and Voldemort swore saw stars. His hips began to jerk in time with Quirrell, moans bubbling along his lips that he didn’t bother holding.

            “Quirrell, I— _shit_ , man, that feels amazing,” he managed to gasp. " _Fuck_ , you need to stop."

            Quirrell pulled off with a soft _pop_ to smile up at his panting soulmate. Voldemort didn’t think anybody should look so damn beautiful on their knees, but there was Quirrell, eyes dark and gleaming with arousal, lips swollen and wet with saliva, and Voldemort had never seen anything so gorgeous in his life.

            “On the bed,” he ordered heatedly, and Quirrell scrambled to listen. Voldemort followed him, reaching to slide the flower-print boxers down and reveal Quirrell’s perfect ass.

            Quirrell pulled opened the bedside drawer and dug around for a moment, his mouth pouting in frustration until he found the bottle he sought. He tossed it to Voldemort, who caught it and flicked open the cap.

            “Sure about this?” he had to ask one more time.

            “Voldemort, if you don’t get over here and fuck me, I’ll fuck _you_ myelf,” Quirrell teased with a devilish grin that told he would make good on that threat. God, Voldemort loved him.

            “How long has it been?” he asked as he spread Quirrell’s legs, caressing his thighs and watching his dick sway in the small twitches of his hips. He never would have expected that sucking him off would turn on Quirrell so much, but he wasn’t complaining.

            “Before we met, obviously.” Quirrell was starting to sound a bit nervous as well. At least Voldemort wasn’t alone there. He squirted an ample amount of lube onto his fingers, not surprised that it smelled like flowers. That was just so _Quirrell_ that Voldemort had to laugh.

            “Yeah, me too,” he admitted needlessly as he caressed Quirrell’s rim with his index finger. Quirrell shivered, breathing deeply, and tried to relax as Voldemort slowly invaded him. Voldemort kissed his knee, delighting in the small keening sounds coming from his soulmate as he pumped the one finger in and out.

            “I would hope so!” Quirrell said with a breathless laugh. He relaxed a bit, making Voldemort’s preparation easier, and soon he was adding another finger. Quirrell whimpered softly, his hips rising to meet Voldemort’s small thrusts. He scissored his fingers, curling and searching, and seconds later, Quirrell was gasping at the sudden pleasure surging through him.

            “A-another,” he pleaded, moaning softly and bucking his hips when Voldemort complied. Now Voldemort could stroke his prostate freely, and Quirrell could only squirm and grasp the bed sheets with tight fists. “P-please… Voldemort!”

            “Think you’re ready?” Voldemort playfully fingered him a bit more, grinning at Quirrell’s flushed cheeks and parted mouth.

            “Y-yes! Yes, please, just—just—ah!” Quirrell wriggled, now making a concentrated effort to get away from the invasive hand, and Voldemort had to agree. Enough teasing.

            He coated his length with the remaining lube and stroked himself a few times, his nerves returning. Quirrell sat up, sweat beading on his brow, to watch him. Red eyes met brown as Voldemort swallowed nervously. Quirrell seemed to understand. He smiled and beckoned him in for a kiss, which Voldemort gratefully accepted.

            “I love you,” Quirrell murmured against his mouth, his erection gliding against Voldemort’s and making him moan. “I love you so much.”

            “I love you too, Squirrel,” Voldemort sighed. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”

            “Don’t you dare stop,” Quirrell warned, grinning.

            “I’ll keep that in mind.” Voldemort began to press his entry, his mouth falling open as Quirrell’s heat surrounded him, clenching him, and he struggled not to release right then and there. Quirrell felt _heavenly_. He didn't know something could feel this amazing. He panted and continued forward with shallow, measured thrusts.

            “Oh. _Oh_. That’s—” Quirrell gasped for air and gripped Voldemort’s arms tightly as he struggled to stay relaxed.

            “You’re tight,” Voldemort hissed as Quirrell clutched at him like a vice.

            “You’re _big_ ,” Quirrell groaned, nearly laughing. “A-are you even halfway in yet?”

            “Almost. Hold on.” Voldemort took a deep breath as he bottomed out, winded just from the first thrust. He held still, his eyes rolling as Quirrell flexed around him. “You okay?”

            “J-just very _full_.” Quirrell reached up to push back some of Voldemort’s loose hair and pulled him down for a kiss. “Move. You can move.”

            “Are you sure?” Voldemort began to ask, but Quirrell pushed back against him, practically begging for movement. He had to comply. Still restraining himself, he began to thrust at a slow pace, enjoying the way Quirrell tightened around him and the small gasps coming from his beautiful lips. He bent to kiss him again, tongue sliding alongside Quirrell’s as they moved in tandem.

            Voldemort couldn’t believe how _wonderful_ Quirrell felt. He’d never known he could fit so perfectly anywhere, and it took him a moment to remember that they were soulmates. Made to fit together. Made for each other. The realization made him groan and speed up, lifting his boyfriend’s hips to reach a new angle, and Quirrell all but wailed at the sharp spike of pleasure.

            “ _Yes_ , Voldemort!” Quirrell babbled, reduced to a panting incoherent mess in just a few more thrusts against his prostate. He clutched at him, encouraging him with his hips to go faster, deeper, and Voldemort obeyed.

            “Fuck, Quirrell, I’m—I won’t last much longer,” Voldemort warned, the tightness in his gut almost too much for him to hold back. He kept climbing higher and higher the more he thought about Quirrell—perfect Quirrell, moaning his name and grasping at him almost deliriously, and it had been so long, and this was _Quirrell_ —

            “Me neither.” Quirrell threw his head back when Voldemort reached between them to stroke him in time with his thrusts. He sped up, spiraling toward his peak, unable to contain his own strangled groans.

            “Sh-should I…?” Voldemort’s thrusts grew erratic. Just a bit more…!

            “N-no, inside is _fine_!” Quirrell moaned suddenly, clamping down on him and coating his hand with thick release. Unable to handle the sensation of Quirrell squeezing him so tightly, Voldemort buried himself deep with one last thrust. He rode through his orgasm until his hips slowed to nothing. Quirrell lay pliant beneath him, basking in the afterglow and grinning like a man saved. Voldemort slid out of him, only just managing to move to his side before his strength left him. He slumped in exhaustion, chest still heaving, and it took every ounce of his willpower to look at his soulmate.

            Quirrell looked completely disheveled. His hair stuck outwards and to his forehead, and his eyes couldn’t seem to focus on anything. But then he looked at Voldemort, smiling with a sweet brilliance, and Voldemort was sure he’d never love anybody or anything as much as he loved Quirrell in that single moment.

            “Me too,” said Quirrell, reaching up to stroke Voldemort’s cheek.

            Grinning like an idiot, Voldemort leaned over to kiss him. “That was… I can’t believe we waited so long.”

            “I can agree. And here you were worried.” Quirrell nuzzled his nose, humming softly. “Now I’m going to need a shower.”

            “I could help?” Voldemort suggested with a wag of his eyebrows.

            “I expect you to!” With a small groan of discomfort, Quirrell managed to sit up. Voldemort decided right then that he was giving Quirrell a massage once he got him under the spray of the shower. Quirrell always loved Voldemort’s massages, and Voldemort couldn’t wait to get his hands back on his lover.

            He opened his mouth to make the offer, but Quirrell cut him off. “And don’t forget, Voldemort. You still owe me a ring.”

            “A ring?” Voldemort repeated dumbly

            “Well, yes. For your proposal?”

            “Oh! Oh, right! A ring! Uh, actually….” Voldemort reached over the side of the bed where he knew one of Quirrell's shirts would be waiting. He cleaned his hand, all while Quirrell tutted, and then delved into his drawer, digging around through the various trinkets he’d collected before he met Quirrell. At last he found the box he was looking for. He’d wanted to give it to him last Christmas, but he chickened out and replaced it with something else at the last minute. Quirrell scooted closer, curiously trying to peer over his shoulder until Voldemort waved him away.

            “This was my mother’s,” he explained as he turned over the golden ring, his thumb rubbing absently across the black stone and the triangular symbol engraved within. “It’s really important to me, almost as much as you are. Would you accept it as an engagement ring?”

            “Oh, Voldemort, I was only teasing you! You don’t have to give me your mother’s ring!” Quirrell stammered, tears filling his eyes, but Voldemort took his hand nonetheless. He slid the band onto his ring finger and then folded Quirrell’s fist into his own.

            “Okay?” Voldemort asked hopefully.

            Quirrell could only nod and cup Voldemort’s face, his throat tight with emotion. “Okay,” he managed, smiling. “Okay.” That was all that needed to be said. Their definition of _okay_ was much better than anyone else’s.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle.
> 
> Also, any idea what ring that was?


End file.
